For Blue Skies
by strapped to a comet
Summary: I'd give up anything not to travel over five thousand miles to see him – anything except my family. But what I found. . .wasn't at all what I expected. ChibsOC. Post Season 1.
1. The Scot

Insert disclaimer here.

I know I shouldn't be starting a new fic, but here it is. Been popping around my head for the better part of this summer, and SOA's premiere finally prompted me to post. Let me know if you'd like more, yeah?

Newly revised as of 7/9/12.

* * *

For Blue Skies

_I'm losing the reasons to breathe I never lived  
Never lived, never lived, I'm in love  
These are my reasons the truth is never filled  
I'm never filled, never filled, I'm in love  
_-Black Rebel Motorcycle Club, "Red Eyes and Tears"

I glance between the impossibly far away entrance, the man blocking my way, and feel my heart double its beat inside my chest. It's so loud I can hear it thunder in my ears, but it fades to the background along with the eleven o'clock news playing on the wall-mounted TV behind the counter of the convenience store. A shooting that claimed the life of a local woman a few days ago has suspected connections to a local gang, but nothing's definite yet. Nothing's ever definite in this world.

Returning my attention to the man standing before me, I fight to regain control of my racing pulse. The heightened awareness of my situation almost makes me dizzy.

"How 'bout it, _mamacita_?"

The guy is looking me up and down and sideways - any and every way. It makes my skin crawl. His eyes are half-lidded, almost bored, but the way he's been eyeing me since he walked into the store betrays his seemingly relaxed stance. He's got brown hair and eyes, tanned skin. He might be Mexican or Colombian by the accent that shades his tone, wearing dark jeans and a leather jacket - a jacket that marks him as a gang member.

I read the bold lettering with trepidation: _MAYANS OAKLAND_.

My heart rate quickens again. The IRA - or any of its branches, for that matter - doesn't wear jackets like the gangs do in the States, but I know a cut when I see one. It's just my luck that some late night shopping would land me in the sights of the sordid. A Mayan, not even a gang that I can claim blood ties to. They seem to be big on that here, sticking with one's "own." I suppose it's the same back home, if only a little less obvious because of the lack of racial diversity.

I shove my things on to the counter for the clerk to ring to buy me some time in answering the guy - deodorant, razors, toothbrush, gum and a bag of potato crisps. In my haste to get to California, I forgot to pack the little luxuries that make staying in a motel five-thousand miles from my home bearable.

"I said. . .how _'bout_ it?" His voice takes on a subtle, sharp edge.

He's taller than me by a couple inches, but it's the look in his eyes that worries me the most. I've seen that look before far too many times, in the eyes of boys turned to soldiers back from war. Half-dead, half-gone. They're there but not. Souls left in tatters, forgotten, on a battlefield they had no busy fighting on to begin with.

I finally look at him, and swallow the lump in my throat.

"I. . .gotta get 'ome," I manage to say, sounding only half as shaky as I feel. "It's late, y'know?" I try for lightness.

A slow, lazy smile spreads over his face as I hear the clerk hesitantly ring up the items I placed on the counter. He takes a step towards me, and I stiffen.

"What is that?" He says softly, almost chuckling to himself. His smile pulls into a smirk. "Where you from, girl?"

I know he's referring to my accent. I've been trying to cover it up since it marks me as an outsider. I'm thankful my black hair and light blue eyes don't stick out nearly as much as they did back home. Black Irish, my mother used to call me. I suppose I need more than ten hours of silent practice on the plane ride over. Actors make it look too easy.

Buggar.

The clerk wordlessly bags my items and puts them on the counter for me to take. He shifts his eyes away from me as he busies himself at the cash register. It's a silent refusal and apology; he won't help me. He doesn't want trouble in his store. I'm on my own here. Then again, I've been on my own for a very long time, it's nothing new.

I grab the white plastic bag off of the counter, my other hand stiff at my side, and keep my eyes on the ground. "Not from around 'ere," I mutter, trying to go around him.

But he blocks my way.

"I got that, _blanca_," he tells me, his smirk deepening. He flicks his head in the direction of the door. "Come on, my bike's out front. Let's take a ride."

He says the word 'ride' like it holds more meaning that just a trip on a motorcycle.

I feel my heart sink to the pit of my stomach. Something close to fear settles at the base of my spine and the tingling turns to burning too quick for comfort. I need to get out of here, despite the fact I've only been here a few days and staying under the radar hasn't been a problem until now. Really, how important _is_ deodorant and a few razors? Who am I trying to impress anyway? The answer is no one, and going at night to the local store in a town that's as alien to me as anything in my life is not one of my brighter ideas of late.

It definitely doesn't speak for my sense of self preservation, that's for damn sure—

The sound of the door bell chimes twice in the background, but I don't look up right away. I've got bigger problems than having two witnesses instead of one.

"No thanks," I say as lightly and quietly as I can, again trying to step around him. I manage two paces before I feel one of his hands wrap around my forearm and squeeze ever so slightly, prelude to a real threat.

"That wasn't no suggestion, _blanca_." This time the nickname sounds like a sneer instead of playful flirting.

"Please—" I say, my eyes glancing beyond the Mayan gang member to see who just entered the store. He's taller than the Mayan, by how much I don't know, with short dark hair and shades pushed up on his forehead. I wonder for a second why he needs dark glasses at night, but then I feel my heart drop again as I realize the black leather jacket he's wearing marks him as a gang member as well – probably not Mayan, but it can't be good.

"You got somewhere you're goin'?" The Mayan sneers at me me, ignoring the newcomer. All pretenses of flirting is gone and now I've pissed him off.

Something in my face – fear, confusion, maybe a silent plea – must be showing clearly, because I watch the newcomer immediately assess the situation. A scant few emotions pass over his face, too fast for me to name, until he finally seems to settle on a false expression of relief.

"There ye are, doll," he says as if I'm an old friend – or girlfriend – and the thick Scottish accent throws me for a loop.

The Mayan turns at the sound of his voice, his grip lessening on me as the Scot walks past him to stand next to me, his arm going around my shoulders as if it's the most natural thing in the world. "Been lookin' all o'er the lot for ya," he says.

I can see the apprehension in the Mayan's eyes as he takes in the situation with the new player. Another gang member, someone taller, broader, at least ten years older - and probably more experienced - than him has entered into the equation. He's looking at me, trying to decide if I'm worth the fight. I could have told him I'm not.

"SOA, huh?" The Mayan nearly says cuttingly. His arm drops as his eyes flicker to the Scotsman's jacket.

SOA? Probably the man's gang affiliation. The man who has his arm protectively wrapped around my shoulders, protecting me from the _other_ gang member.

_What a fuckin' night_, I think.

"Let's go, doll," the Scot tells me, leading us away from the Mayan and towards the door.

My fingers tighten around the handles of the plastic bag in my hand, almost forgotten during the whole exchange. I cast a glance over my shoulder to see the Mayan eying the both of us with a repressed rage. For a second, I think he's going to pull a knife on us or worse. But he just keeps on watching as the Scot stops to hold the door open for me.

I briefly meet his gaze before stepping out into the warm night air, too surprised to say anything. I can't remember the last time someone held the door out for me. It's then that I see, in the fluorescent lights of the store, the scars on either side of his face, a sinister ghost of a wide smile. They leave me with chills, and it crosses my mind that I might not be out of the woods yet. There's no guarantee this guy is any better than the one he just saved me from. I don't have time to worry about it too much before he takes my hand and leads me out into the parking lot.

If he has noticed me looking at his scars, he doesn't say anything. I let the silence settle between us, and note the roughness of the hand that holds mine. I don't have any calluses on my palms.

The Scot lets go of my hand and leads me towards a hulking black motorcycle. He swings his leg over the side of the bike, settling himself on the seat, then turns to me, holding out a helmet that'd been hanging off one of the handles.

I stare at him like a little lost chick, and after a moment, he just smiles.

"You took the bus 'ere, right?" He surmises, and I can't get over how thick his accent is. It reminds me of home - almost.

Not knowing what else to do, I nod, wary of how he knows that.

Again he's able to read my expression, and nods to the lot around us. "No'ther cars but the mingin's ride," he explains, pointing toward a smaller motorcycle parked a few spaces down.

Of course. Simple logic, not the thinking of a maniacal killer.

"Ah," is all I can come up with.

Still not moving, the Scotsman lets out a throaty laugh and holds out the helmet again. "I won't bite ye, I prohmise. Give ye a lift hame is'all."

My eyes narrow in uncertainty. I don't _want_ to trust him, but there's something about his voice and face that remind me achingly of home, which immediately makes me want to climb on and head off, away from the eerie silence of the parking lot and the threatening presence of the second motorcycle parked just a few yards away.

_The lesser of two evils_, I decide, talking the helmet from him and pushing it down over my head. I push my hair back behind my ears and hope that'll stop it from whipping me in the face during the ride.

I'm about to put the bag down to clip the straps under my chin when his hands beat me to it. He gently clips them in place and tightens the strap because it's too loose on me. His proximity makes me acutely aware of the smoky scent that permeates his clothing, and the scent of something else I can't name. I wonder at the sudden awareness of a man I've only just met, not five minutes ago - but shake it off.

His gaze is focused on the task at hand, but when it's done, his dark eyes flicker to mine, and then – quite noticeably – to my lips.

"There ye are," he says, a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. " 'Op on," he says with a flick of his chin, and suddenly the moment's passed.

I stop the instinctive smile before it reaches my lips, and tentatively climb on the bike, settling myself against him and wrapping my arms around his waist. Even through the leather and jeans, I can feel the lines of muscles that make up his shoulders, his torso and legs. In the dark it makes me flush like I'm back at university and catching the eye of a handsome guy at the local pub.

The engine revs, jarring me from my thoughts of the past. Just before he kicks off, he turns over his shoulder, his eyes catching mine.

"Name's Chibs," he offers lightly, testing out the throttle a few times; the engine roaring beneath us.

I hesitate for a second before saying in return, "Clare."

He smiles, then kicks off, and we ride into the night.


	2. Just A Ride

Took me a while, but I got it up. I've got the next few chapters planned out, and am going to have this take place between seasons 1 and 2. Hang tight and don't forget to review!

Newly revised as of 7.14.12!

* * *

For Blue Skies

_Yeah, her eyes, oh her eyes  
Her eyes are a blue million miles  
I look at her, she looks at me  
In her eyes, I see the sea  
I can't see what she sees in a man like me  
-The Black Keys, "Her Eyes Are A Blue Million Miles"_

* * *

The man with the scars – Chibs – whisks us off down the highway, my arms tight around him. We're going so fast, the wind whips my hair back from my face, and I relish the feel of the fresh air hitting my face. It reminds me of home – all I need is the soft, welcoming spray of the sea, the gentle sound of my sister's laughter as the waves lick away at her bare feet. Alanna would love riding on a motorcycle. Just the thought, the freedom it would bring. She'd smile ear to ear.

My sister has always been the more daring of the two of us, despite the fact I'm nine years her senior. The idea of getting saved by a dashing Scotsman with mysterious scars in an unassuming town and riding off into the darkness on the back of his bike – it's the kind of romantic tale that she thrives on, the kind of tales that have kept her alive through everything hardship she's had to face.

"There's only three motels 'ere in Chahmin'," Chibs nearly shouts over the roar of the wind and the bike's engine as we approach a wide corner. Instinctively, I lean the way his torso leans and slide back up straight once we're out of the turn.

"Which one're you tucked in'at?" He asks me.

Charming must be a very small town for there to be only three motels in total. No big franchises or chains here, that's for sure. This place, so different from the city I'd flown in to with its skyscrapers and street lights, a concrete jungle. This place...it hasn't forgotten its roots, or let go of them, either.

"The Horseshoe," I answer. It had been the first one that came into sight when I'd arrived in a taxi a few days ago.

"Aye, that's a good one," he tells me, and I can hear something like fondness in his tone.

I'm trying to figure the reason for such a preference, but my mind instead wanders back to this nagging feeling of familiarity. I haven't been able to shake it since Chibs first showed up at the store to save my arse from that Mayan gang member. It's in the way he carries himself, the odd tilt of his smirk. I'm thinking about him like I've known him, but that can't be logical. Logic tells me I've never crossed the pond before, but there's still something. . .

I hear Ma's voice in my head, suddenly. _Trust your gut, sweetheart. It's the only one you've got._

The thought of her makes my throat tighten, and so I turn my thoughts back to the present. The roar of the motorcycle and crisp night air drown out the past.

Our destination - the Horseshoe - is located on the other side of town, past the main street where most of the stores are located and on the outskirts of the residential areas. In hindsight, it probably wasn't the best place for me to stay at, but it was cheap and I was jet lagged when I'd gotten here. It's amazing the things we take for granted – a bed, a roof and a heater – when deprived of them for just a day, especially when we're so far from home.

I feel a wave of homesickness begin to well inside of me, but I bat it down. I can't let childish feelings like that get in the way of why I came here. There is too much at stake for me to screw this up.

She's counting on me, and I can't let her down.

The motel comes into to sight, neon green vacancy sign shedding an odd light on the near deserted parking lot. Chibs turns into the lot and cuts the engine in front of Room 7. I'm staying a few doors down in Room 2, but I don't say anything just then. My arms are still wrapped around his torso, oddly clenched for the short ride it took to get here from the convenience store. For a few brief seconds, all I can hear is the night wind blowing in the distance, soft crackle of a telly inside Room 7. No crickets out tonight.

I feel the absence of roaring waves and salty air sink in as I take in my surroundings.

"Yeh plannin' on sittin' there f'rever, Clare?"

His voice is jarring – and not only because of the accent. I drop my hands from around him and swing my leg off the bike, slightly embarrassed. The sensation of standing on solid ground after the bike ride - coupled with my hours-long flight - leaves me a little wobbly.

Chibs swings a leg over his bike, but instead of standing, just sits, nonchalant, on the side and crosses his arms over his chest. His scars are less noticeable in the moonlight, and his dark hair – touched lightly with grey at his temples – shades his features even more, features I swore I've seen before. High cheek bones, angular chin and long nose. The scars, however - those I've only ever seen on blokes who got mixed up in the wrong sort of business, a cautionary tale to young lads who think they're tougher than they really are.

I should be wary of everything I'm feeling, trusting a stranger to drive me home, letting him know where I'm sleeping - maybe not the particular room, though it's just as bad.

But at the moment, the only thing I'm keenly aware of is the nagging feeling in the back of my mind. It's been with me ever since I first got on his bike, and the bloody deja vu is a fracking buggar to deal with.

So, against all better judgment, I ask him. "Where'd you serve?"

The question clearly takes him for a loop.

"Sahry?" He says, cocking his head to one side.

I felt more than just his torso when I was holding on to him during the ride. I'd know the feel of a blade anywhere; my Pa made sure of that before my twelfth birthday. No girl in our family was spared my Pa's less than formal training, and it's because of this that I know my knight in leather armor either served time or served in the military. Or both.

His eyes narrow slightly - in curiosity, I think, and not anger. He wants to know where this line of questioning will lead, but I'd wish him farewell if he's trying to read me. The only person who can do that is safely tucked away back at home, and she'd never give me up.

I cross my arms to match his stance, and hold his gaze.

He watches me for a few more quiet moments, then replies. "British Ahmed Forces. How'd yeh know?"

I feel my heart do a loop in my chest, face heating up from surprise. I'm not thinking about the knife anymore, I'm thinking about his answer: British Armed Forces. Her Majesty's military. _My_ country's military. He's a Scot, but there's something in his accent that tells me that's not where he grew up. Alanna and I both grew up hearing stories about kids swept up from their homes in Scotland to be recruited for the resistance in the north - against their will, or to flee from bad home situations. They'd take anyone back then. She and I were safe on the other side of the straight, but those kids weren't.

"When?" I ask. After a beat, "Where?" I hope I don't sound as urgent as I feel.

"Reh'crooted in Belfast, stationed in Liverpool. Fer five mohnths – 'til I was bloody court mahrsholled," he answers, chuckling quietly to himself and shaking his head. "It was a bodge job, throwin' me out."

"Bet it was," I mutter to myself, my mind suddenly thrown elsewhere.

This has to be some kind of joke on me, on my family. I'm trying to reconcile my own disbelief in my mind. . .it saves time, sure, I flew five thousand miles to see him - Chibs, my late night savior - anyway. I just didn't expect the time and place of our meeting to be so out of my control. I had a whole plan: go to the sheriff's office, ask where he worked, visit him in the day, get what I needed, then go home and get back to Alanna before it was too late.

I didn't exactly plan on tonight happening. Spontaneity, working with what you've got. I've always been bollocks at that. Improvisation is not my strong suit. My family and I have been through too much over the years for me to leave anything to chance.

Figures fate would step in now when I needed her least.

"By my reckonin', you aether have a fahther that served. . .or there's more to yeh than meets the eye, Lady Clare," he tells me with an edge of humor in his tone.

My stomach tightens at the playful nickname, and I look up to see a smirk pulling at the corner of his lips. The déjà vu beckons forward in my mind, revealing itself - that smirk is hard to forget, no matter how much time has passed or how different I am from when I last saw it.

"Which is it?" He asks, genuinely curious.

"My Pa," I say shortly. It's only half a lie.

He pushes himself off of the bike. All it takes is a few steps towards me and he's towering over me. He reaches slowly forward and clicks the buckle underneath my chin loose, and I become very aware of every breath I take in and every one I blow out. I had completely forgotten I was still wearing his helmet, like some foolish little girl.

His hands linger under my chin for a moment. He asks, "What ahr you doin' so fahr frohm 'ome?"

I should be relieved that he doesn't recognize me, and I definitely shouldn't be surprised. The last time I saw him, I was barely fifteen. I had longer hair then. My skin probably wasn't as pale as it is now. I was a very different person then. He'd been nearly bleeding to death at the time; of course he wouldn't remember me.

It might be because he saved me from a very bad situation. It might be the dark leather, the motorcycle, the chilly west coast weather at night. For whatever reason, I decide to tell him the truth – at least, most of it.

"I'm here for my sister," I answer finally.

"What's here that can 'elp her that's no' back 'ome?" He counters, his hands slowly coming to rest at his sides.

The space between us is close, close enough for me to hear the change in his voice, softer, and that he smells like redwood and cigarettes.

_You_, I think.

That's the answer, but I don't tell him that. I tell him good night, give him back his helmet and thank him for the ride. He walks me to my door like a perfect knight – even surprises me by kissing my hand.

I'm halfway through the door when I hear him call my name. I turn around, and he's snapping on his helmet, revving up his bike and I have to admire the unhindered roar of the engine.

"Will I see yeh again?" He calls to me.

I take a moment to enjoy the irony of the moment, that our meeting tonight has been him seeing me again, after nearly two decades years, but I don't tell him that.

Picturing my sister, her windblown blonde hair, adventurous heart, I tell him he will and allow myself to smile.


End file.
